Another one of friend Spartacus's enviable and emulable traits throughout the long course of our friendship has been his patience, his curiosity over what the other person has to say, his open mind, his empathy, his compassion.
I remember how, during one of my visits to his family's secure compound, I was working to explain to him why it is that time travel isn't a simple matter of stepping into (and out of) a machine, or getting klonged in the head by a crowbar, or even of hypnotizing oneself into an earlier era. The issue is that time is part of the very structure of the universe; to free yourself of its confines in order to pass at random through it... which requires you to step entirely outside of the universe: you have to manipulate and restructure the universe in order to meet your objective.
That makes stories of time travel, nearly every last one, tales of fantasy, and not of science fiction, unless you're using a craft or gizmo that that works through demonstrated scientific principles, and follows the laws of physics... as with, say, a vehicle that can travel at supraluminal speed, and why it can.
This is something I've given much thought (and some informal study) to, over the last few years, since I'm writing a novel that uses time travel... with the characters themselves debating these very points – and from the further perspective that at least one of them has very likely seen (and engaged in) a couple jaunts to the past... and doesn't understand it either. Spartacus had read a draft of two sections of that thick novel-in-the-works, and liked it, and made some keen suggestions I liked in turn, and which helped parts of the narrative.
So while I discussed this with him in his refectory, a few years ago, he sat across the table from me, smiling gently and politely, listening respectfully to every last word and illustration I offered up – and, I noticed, not getting a single bit of it, even while clearly willing to hear me out silently for a few more hours, with no objection or interruption. That was his patience... and his indulgent nature as well, which I've seen him use as well with his children (and wife) and mastiffs.
When not during those rare instances under each other's roof, we'd been in steady, very-regular touch via email, sharing (as I wrote earlier) each our latest adventures and experiences, photos artistic and of latest craft accomplishment, bits of verse and fiction and bawdy tale, rant and rave on politics (Repugnicants, Democraps, and their meek sheeple – throw 'em all out!), and so on. Typically, if several weeks had gone past without an e-missive, one of us would metaphorically peek into the other's window, and make sure all was well. In that way, his wife and I had seen him through a very bad (and rare) depressive trough; I'd walked him and his family through some grief over the passing of particularly dear and beloved animal companion... and he'd done the same as well, when I'd run into my own parallels of these personal moments of life-challenge.
So against the backdrop of pandemic and riot and social sickness, I received an email from him late in June of 2020; his kindly heart and nature came through readily (as well as a soupçon of Sicilian), as always:
From:
"Spark" le Klaus [mailto:SpartaCuss@Yabbadoo.com]
Sent: Tuesday,
June 23, 2020 6:51 PM
To: Aging
Child [mailto:AGeneChilde@YouWho.com]
Subject: Che pasa?
Hey guy, it’s been a while. Checking in to see if you’re alright.
Has your workplace instituted protective measures that instill some level of confidence in your safety?
Things are going well here.
We hope you and your family are well
Take care buddy!
It was good to hear from him, of course, and so I naturally had a response back to him just a bit later that evening... though (as usual) at length:
From: Gene
Sent: Tuesday, June 23, 2020 10:09 PM
To: Sparks
Subject: RE: Cheese pasta?Sparkly, thanks for the tap at
the door, and face at the window! All's okay here, overall. And your
woodworking emails are impatiently drumming their fingers in my inbox, waiting
for me to send an overdue and very interested reply.
The medical practice where I work shut down completely for the second half of March, then reopened in early April to severely curtailed hours and services, and just a handful of staffers (yours truly included). After a few weeks, as the number of new viral cases and deaths continued to drop, we went back to almost-normal hours, nearly-full staff, and resumption of most non-urgent services.
The past couple weeks have seen local restaurants partly opening their in-house (as opposed to outhouse?) dining... and I'm still not comfortable having a sit-down meal anywhere but home, let alone any other kind of gathering. Daughter One and I mutually punted our annual Fathers' Day dinner to July-plus for that very reason – she feels the same, and until just yesterday had been working entirely from her home since mid-March.
My older brother and I have been visiting our mother every weekend since that same point... through her bedroom window, or one of the emergency-exit doors/windows. She's been eating and drinking well, doesn't seem worried, depressed, or anxious (as I'd feared), and still asks some keen questions. Since last week, I've been able to drop off sealed, pre-wrapped brownies and milk shakes that can be wiped down with sanitizer before being served up to her, and help fatten her up further, which she still needs.
Her assisted-care facility has held daily Zoom teleconferences to keep their patients' family members up to date on all that's being done. The staff – from kitchen crew up to the director herself – has literally put its heart and soul into the cause of patient safety and health (and their own); twice in one teleconference, the director was in tears as she reported one of three virus-related deaths.
We still can't go into Mother's nursing home any further than the reception desk, and that's fine by me... and I'm not in a rush to see the doors thrown open and all kinds of virus vectors traipse in there. Out of a hundred-minus patients, nineteen contracted CoViD-19 – and staff clamped down immediately and extremely hard with closed doors to visitors, and with quarantines, strict and stringent sanitizing and PPEs and quarantines and isolation and repeated testings of all patients and staff... and lost no more than just those three patients to the pandemic. Meanwhile, the nursing home right around the corner here had at least 66 cases and some twenty deaths; another center down the road had over a hundred cases, and I don't know how many deaths... maybe several dozen.
All this has been stressful on the family. And some of the weight is beginning to lift; Mother's facility has just been designated covid-negative; the sixteen patients who'd had the virus (and not succumbed) have all recovered. Visits in person may start again within the next couple weeks, and under very strong limitations: outdoors only; staff-monitored social-distance, and limited to half an hour or less. I don't want us to rush into that, either... but it's one clear light of hope and of recovery in its much greater sense.
And the virus is still out there, so extreme patience and continued commitment to protecting lives are absolutely still called for. And I may be an asymptomatic carrier, for all I know; I do not want to be of danger to anyone.
One profoundly sad note for the family came in just a couple weeks ago. We got word stateside on the death of one of our German cousins on Mothers' Day (same holiday and date in Germany); she was in her still-young forties. This was not to the virus – as far as I can tell, the entire sprawling family has thus far not been directly affected/afflicted – but to diabetes; she passed away in her sleep.
She'd been fun company during my three visits to Germany, the first when she was a perky, merry little toddler of just two years. Her mother's heart – the biggest, deepest, and sweetest in all the family – must still be broken. For the last many days, I've been trying to pull together adequate words of consolation... and will have to let that struggle go, and just write what I can and send her sweet mother what my own lesser heart dictates, and then follow with photos from my and my dad's albums, and some more words and memories.
The medical practice where I work shut down completely for the second half of March, then reopened in early April to severely curtailed hours and services, and just a handful of staffers (yours truly included). After a few weeks, as the number of new viral cases and deaths continued to drop, we went back to almost-normal hours, nearly-full staff, and resumption of most non-urgent services.
The past couple weeks have seen local restaurants partly opening their in-house (as opposed to outhouse?) dining... and I'm still not comfortable having a sit-down meal anywhere but home, let alone any other kind of gathering. Daughter One and I mutually punted our annual Fathers' Day dinner to July-plus for that very reason – she feels the same, and until just yesterday had been working entirely from her home since mid-March.
My older brother and I have been visiting our mother every weekend since that same point... through her bedroom window, or one of the emergency-exit doors/windows. She's been eating and drinking well, doesn't seem worried, depressed, or anxious (as I'd feared), and still asks some keen questions. Since last week, I've been able to drop off sealed, pre-wrapped brownies and milk shakes that can be wiped down with sanitizer before being served up to her, and help fatten her up further, which she still needs.
Her assisted-care facility has held daily Zoom teleconferences to keep their patients' family members up to date on all that's being done. The staff – from kitchen crew up to the director herself – has literally put its heart and soul into the cause of patient safety and health (and their own); twice in one teleconference, the director was in tears as she reported one of three virus-related deaths.
We still can't go into Mother's nursing home any further than the reception desk, and that's fine by me... and I'm not in a rush to see the doors thrown open and all kinds of virus vectors traipse in there. Out of a hundred-minus patients, nineteen contracted CoViD-19 – and staff clamped down immediately and extremely hard with closed doors to visitors, and with quarantines, strict and stringent sanitizing and PPEs and quarantines and isolation and repeated testings of all patients and staff... and lost no more than just those three patients to the pandemic. Meanwhile, the nursing home right around the corner here had at least 66 cases and some twenty deaths; another center down the road had over a hundred cases, and I don't know how many deaths... maybe several dozen.
All this has been stressful on the family. And some of the weight is beginning to lift; Mother's facility has just been designated covid-negative; the sixteen patients who'd had the virus (and not succumbed) have all recovered. Visits in person may start again within the next couple weeks, and under very strong limitations: outdoors only; staff-monitored social-distance, and limited to half an hour or less. I don't want us to rush into that, either... but it's one clear light of hope and of recovery in its much greater sense.
And the virus is still out there, so extreme patience and continued commitment to protecting lives are absolutely still called for. And I may be an asymptomatic carrier, for all I know; I do not want to be of danger to anyone.
One profoundly sad note for the family came in just a couple weeks ago. We got word stateside on the death of one of our German cousins on Mothers' Day (same holiday and date in Germany); she was in her still-young forties. This was not to the virus – as far as I can tell, the entire sprawling family has thus far not been directly affected/afflicted – but to diabetes; she passed away in her sleep.
She'd been fun company during my three visits to Germany, the first when she was a perky, merry little toddler of just two years. Her mother's heart – the biggest, deepest, and sweetest in all the family – must still be broken. For the last many days, I've been trying to pull together adequate words of consolation... and will have to let that struggle go, and just write what I can and send her sweet mother what my own lesser heart dictates, and then follow with photos from my and my dad's albums, and some more words and memories.
[Note: I later called my aunt, and heard her out in her grief and recovery, switching between German and English, and wishing I could be with her and my uncle's and their surviving daughters' reach.]
Times are still tough on all
fronts, and in all areas... and also slowly improving. It's looking maybe-okay
to peek above the trenches now – with helmets and masks on. I'm just not about
to leap into no-man's-land with a soccer ball and an ammo-case full of wishful
thinking, and am encouraging the same of everybody else right now.
Next worry: how much have the
protests, and the merrily oblivious rush to beaches and parklands and bistros,
caused the virus to spike once more, maybe even nurture a second wave? We'll
see in another week or two. So stay masked and wary, kids!
Regards,
A. Gene
Enter through the narrow gate;
for the gate is wide and the road broad that leads to destruction, and those
who enter through it are many. How narrow the gate and constricted the road
that leads to life; and those who find it are few. — Matthew 7:13-14
More shortly: Spartacus' reply would take a very unexpected, alarming tone, bordering on a stunningly cold rudeness.
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